S01E08: Letters

[theme music]

I'm Alan Partridge, and this is my podcast. From the Oasthouse!

 

Good morning. This is Alan Partridge from the Oasthouse, and I want you to listen to some sounds.

[sounds: spoon stirring in a mug, slurping a drink, a sniff, a contented "Aaah!" and a plate smashing]

These are some of my favourite noises which together form the unmistakable sound of me, Alan Partridge, sitting at my desk, opening my mail and enjoying a nice, warm mouth-full of coffee. And while some of the sounds were exaggerated, I don't make a noise when I smile and I've never slurped coffee in my life, it all helps to create an auditory image, a sonic picture. A noise... diagram... of a man enjoying the sheer pleasure of letters! 

I think you might have heard my housekeeper drop a plate in there too, that's not one of my favourite sounds. Doesn't bother me though, I'm sure it's not one of the good ones and even if it is, who cares if she drops a plate a month? That's only that's only, what, twelve plates a year. Although that's a set isn't it? She's not gonna drop a dinner plate every time, I'm sure she's gonna... vary, you know, the odd side-plate or mug. 

But the sound of a man, or woman, sitting down to open letters was, not long ago, a familiar sound in homes up and down the land. As familiar as the whistle of a kettle, the bring! bring! of an old Bakelite phone in the hallway, the creaking sound of a grandmother coming downstairs with the receding sound of a toilet flush in her wake! Older listeners will remember that a letter was once a delight for the senses, not least the olfactory... er... the olfactory... [long, thoughtful pause] nerve endings. Sorry about that.

When I see the postman coming, my nostrils positively flare! Love-letters wafted with perfume, and the thick must of old paper! Further back of course, the fragrance of a freshly-stamped wax seal. Ask any young person what a wax seal is and they'll probably think it's something you'd get from a zoo gift shop! Wax. Seal. 

But today, much of this snail mail - love that phrase - has been replaced by electronic mail. The soothing scratch of quill on parchment, the elegant swishes of a Mont Blanc pen replaced forever by the tap tap t-tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap t-tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap, usually made by a commuter with an iPhone on a busy train. "Turn off your key-tones! Seriously, turn them off! Go to settings. Right, then sounds. Right, now un-toggle keyboard clicks. See? Simple!". 

Yet, in many households letters are as obsolete as the dodo, Ewbank carpet sweepers, or just common courtesy, and that's sad! But not here in the Oasthouse, where we're polite, happy, and we get lots of letters! And so I thought, let's let the listeners in! Not literally, it's a private home with an electric gate and a sign that says "Beware, my dog will hurt you!", but audibly - [seemingly voice-activated jingle] "brought to you by Audible" - because that's what From the Oasthouse is! It's a small window, a furtive peephole, if you like, into my life. 

So I thought I'd let you listen to me open my post, or as we now call it mail, just as Halloween has superseded Guy Fawkes Night, yet another example of American English tightening its grip around the throat of British culture with little to no resistance, as the British seem to have a fetish for being choked by the Americans culturally. 

Anyway, let's not get negative! Opening my post is part of my daily routine. Already today, I've risen, cleaned myself, breakfasted, done an exercise class I found on YouTube called 'Twerk Dat!', which is sort of a fun, funky way to firm up your bum, rinsed myself down, made a flask of coffee, and now have retired to my study where I'm sitting at my writing desk. 

Mine is solid oak with a green leather top so it looks as if someone's hammered the House of Commons into the shape of the table. What a lovely thought that is, hopefully with them still in it! Love the House of Lords though. What is that, maroon? Oxblood? It's lovely!

[theme music sting]

And so let us commence! I begin with the splay, fanning letters out into a horseshoe shape to admire the days haul, much as a trawlerman returns to shore, surveys the tonnes of dead fish in his net and thinks, "I got those!". 

[commotion from Rosa downstairs, together with a smashing plate] 

Hang on. Hang on. Rosa, is everything all right?

"I take the plates from the shelf so I can clean them..."

I heard a bit of...

"I- I- I think the plates have..."

Yes, I heard. It's alright. It's alright. 

[Rosa continues, inaudible but distressed]

It's alright! Are you okay? 

"It's too high for me..." 

It's all right. It's alright!

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Mr Partridge!"

Was it one of the good ones? It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, but was it? One of the good ones? 

[inaudible, increasingly distressed]

No, it's fine. I just want to know if it's one of the good ones?

[Rosa cries]

Don't cry Rosa, Rosa it's fine. Don't- it's fine! Don't cry! Don't cry! Oh no, don't cry! Go and sit on the front step and have a cigarette.

[Rosa perking up] "Can I?"

Course you can, take your time! 

"Okay!"

All right. 

"I'm sorry!"

Rosa, it matters not one iota! 

"What is...?"

Iota is a really small thing, doesn't matter, doesn't matter. Pardon? It doesn't matter! I'm not bothered. 

[Rosa continues her apologies]

Alright love! Take your time!

"Okay".

Yeah, it was one of the good ones. 

Anyway, it's down to business. I always have the same silver letter opener, mine's a sort of a scaled-down cutlass, kind of a miniature sabre although those are slightly different swords, but no time to go into that now. But when it- when you- when you hold it, you do feel like a giant pirate! When my cleaner comes in I sometimes point it at her and say "Aye aye me hearties! Walk the plank!" and she's from Manila but she still laughs. I don't think- maybe it's nervous laughter but... do they have nervous laughter in the Philippines? That's everywhere, isn't it? 

But I do think is important to use a proper letter opener, you don't - [the fwit! of a letter being opened with a blade] There we go, see? - you don't want to pry your finger under the envelope flaps, if you can avoid it. A lot of letter-writers still lick their envelopes to gum them closed and, with the best will in the world, I worry about the transfer of germs. Easy to imagine the teeming bacteria from the sender's mouth reproducing frantically in a warm sorting depot, so you shouldn't be licking envelopes. 

Anyway, most come with a pre-gummed Peel-and-Seal flap but if you're still using the old kind, do what a Postmistress does, use a damp sponge! Okay, so here we go! Cutlass goes under the hood... It's a clean cut and we're in! And what have we got? 

It's a letter here from Roy Hearst in Felixstowe, he says "Dear Alan, do you consider me racist? Whilst I wish no ill of anyone of any race. I do have what I would describe as racial preferences". Hmm. "A simple ranking of which is listed below in descending order". Alright. 

1. White (Caucasian). 

2. Jewish. 

3. Mixed race (white and Asian). 

4. Mixed race (white and black). 

5. Mixed race (black and Asian). 

6. Indigenous Americans. 

7. Oriental, (Chinese, Japanese). 

8. Arab. 

9. Asian. 

10. Black. 

11. Other miscellaneous persons of an unfamiliar hue. 

He says "My wife agrees, although she would swap Orientals and Arabs", and adds, "Again, I emphasise this is not to do with hatred, simply preference. Just as one may prefer coffee over tea, I prefer certain races over others". 

Well, erm... Personally, I gotta say, Roy, your handwriting is ex-quisite! It is quite beautiful! And there's not a single error, or crossing out in the whole thing. You must have done a first draft, if that was straight off the bat I take my hat off to you. If it weren't for the content, I'd frame it. 

But I have to say most people, me included, would say that you are a racist. I think that's just- yeah, that's just factual. It's not to say there isn't a nicer side to you, I notice you've included a recipe for a farmhouse fruitcake, which I will certainly try. And for other listeners, remember my audience is a broad church and like all churches, there are one or two racists. Normally sitting near the front. 

Would that it we're not so, but that it be for all to see, so. But! My advice to you, Roy, would be... try as much as you can to be less racist! I say this when I meet racist people; start by not being racist one day a week, then two, then three, then four and before you know it, you'll have broken the back of it and you've done a whole week without being racist, which you can then roll out into the rest of your life and... I find that that works well! 

Do write again, Roy. And, you know, don't be downhearted! As I say, if you can pull anything from the fire, it's your delightful handwriting! I have devoured the penmanship of your delightfully-calligraphic missive. For those that don't know, Calligraphy is the ancient art of Camp Writing.

[theme music sting]

Letter writing itself is an art, a vanishing one, but for many centuries one which was as popular as heck! One immediately thinks of the Bible in which St. Paul sent letters incessantly to the Corinthians, and I don't know if they actually responded, but it didn't put him off! On the whole, his letters were well meaning if a little preachy, like when you get a charity Christmas card from Anthea Turner. Still, at least they were letters, if it had been today St. Paul would probably have sent a WhatsApp message with two hands praying and a thumbs up emoji! [laughs] I must do stand up. 

And one of course thinks for the correspondence written by the principal character in Pride and Prejudice, the literary classic about that woman who longs to... have sex with that... moody man, I adore books! Indeed, as recently as my own younger days, the letter still flourished. In my loft, I have a box of love letters from my ex-wife, Carol. Yeah, I was gonna burn them and then I thought she'd hate it more if I kept them in a box. So in the end, I kept them in a box. 

It's funny how life turns out isn't it , because although I was a broken man after she left, several years later my life was back on track and hers had fallen apart, because her fitness instructor boyfriend had dumped her for yet another client, a new improved version of my ex-wife, at which point she texted me to say, "Fancy a coffee?", and I thought I'll just- I'll just ignore her, but in the end I just texted back saying, "Naaah! You're alright!". She was obviously in a pretty dark place but the point is, it all worked out in the end! 

I used to receive letters from a very loyal listener who had a wonderfully florid style of prose. It was all "Good sir", or "I hope this missive finds you well", or "I write to expound on matters most vexatious!". It was always peppered with forsooths and betwixts, And I'd always write back in a similar vein, channelling the spirit of a scribe in the time of Henry VIII, or any old king. 

But then one day he came up to me in the pub and I was having a drink with my business associates Daryl Flench and Craig Savage and he kept saying, "Good morrow, fine sir!" and "Hark now!". And, you know, for a while Flench was chuckling away at this, but, you know, those type of words are fine written down but they lose their charm when they're said out loud. Eventually I just said, "Ho-ho, 'tis the wending hour!". He said, "What do you mean?", I said, "You've got to go, mate!" . He wrote once more to say he wouldn't be writing again, but it was just in normal language. 

What else have we got here? Plenty, that's what! Listen to this, [sounds of paper rustling] as you can tell, there's a lot of mail there. To house it, I've emptied out an old brown beanbag and turned it into my postbag! Actually, I was chatting to Stella, this woman who lives next door, she's a real card, she said "Where do you keep your letters?" And I said, "Well, I've got a big, round, leathery mail sack" and she said, "You should see a doctor!". [laughs] Swear to God, I laughed like a drain! She's- she's great! Drives a Range Rover, has bleached-blonde hair... my god she's funny. 

I should point out none of these letters come to me directly, my assistant Lynn collects them from the BBC and goes through them first. She's my first line of defence, weeding out any letters that may be abusive. How does she decide which don't get through? Well, I've said to her; first thing, smell the letter. Does it stink? Bin it. If it's written in block caps, bin it. Any spelling mistakes on the envelope, bin it. If it's addressed to 'Partridge' rather than 'Alan Partridge', or 'Mr. Partridge', bin it. 

I've learned from years of dealing with farmers and Labour Party sympathisers, that when someone uses your surname they mean to harm you, be that a cruel word or a full-on beat down, they wanna hurt ya! Quite a bit of junk mail, obviously there's not as much as there used to be due to the continuing success of the internet. Junk mail has turned into spam. [Seldom starts barking loudly in another room] Not- Not literally! No! No, no! I don't have any Spam! I don't have Spam! - He just likes Spam - [continued barking] There's no Spam! No! No Spam! [barking dies down]. Sorry. What's this, Jiffy bag of some kind, let's have a look...

Oh, hello! It's a knitted iPhone case in black wool, sort of like a tea cosy for an iPhone. That's- that's from Dawn Lyons in Halifax, it's made competently enough not that I'll use it, it looks like a tiny black balaclava. I don't want my phone to look like a member of the IRA, because it's not, and neither am I! If I was, I'd probably love it. I might send it to Gerry Adams. I met him once, he seemed alright. 

What else? Let's have a look. "Dear Alan, I'm a fan of your work...", here we go. Here we go. "Rare blood disease... operation in Florida... see your way to donating just-", blah blah blah blah blah. [screws letter up and  throws it to the bin, misses]. Shame that, you get a lot of begging letters. It's a sad fact that when you achieve a bit of success, people want to cut you down to size, and hurt you by asking for money. 

When you earn a few shekels, they'll come out of the woodwork. Sponsorship forms, sob stories, students asking for financial help. Financial help?! Work in a call centre like a normal student! Obviously you worry that some might be true, they may be very deserving, so if I'm not sure and it claims to be from a child, I write back asking for a photo of the child in their hospital bed, holding a copy of today's newspaper, assuming they're strong enough to do so and if they're not just have a nurse crouched next to them, and she can hold it. 

And of course, this area is rife with con-men and scamsters, often with the incredibly sophisticated backstories. They are very clever! For example, one came in the mail last week and these guys had really done their homework. They were making out that they were a young woman whose mother had been a makeup artist on my chat show 'Knowing Me Knowing You with Alan Partridge' back in the '90s - Britpop etc, good days - the dates all stacked out, like I say, very clever. 

Anyway, this woman was saying her mother had developed Parkinson's, had had to give up work and had become depressed. Would I send a signed photo, it would mean a lot, cheer her up. Hmmmm! Alarm bells started to ring when she said "You may remember a makeup artist called Sue". Well! Anyone who's worked in television would know that there are thousands of makeup artists called Sue. In the '70s in the '80s you couldn't move for Sues! There was Sue in makeup, Sue in management, Sue in wardrobe, Sue in catering, "Do- do you remember Sue?". Of course I remember Sue, everyone remembers Sue! 

So yes, that is almost certainly a con, so I'll just pop it on the pile there. Lynn will give it one last vet before it's passed on to the police. 

[theme music sting]

On Twitter, I asked you to tell me what were the best letters you've ever had. Roger Hallam says the best letter he received was an invitation to Rotary Club fundraiser. He says the letter was quite long, but it rhymed. He says, "It might not sound it, but it was the funniest letter I've ever read". I can imagine Roger, I adore poetry! 

And, er, oh hello, here we go, one here from my troll High Noon. He says "Alan, heard what you said about trolls being sexually inadequate. I suggest you watch what you say in the future, your mates aren't as discreet as you think. I know your little secret". Ooooh, tough guy! He goes on and says that, "And just so you know, your podcast isn't even that good and you sound like Nicholas Witchell. Cheer up". 

Right, well a couple of things to unpack there. Number one; little secret, who says I've got a little secre- I haven't got a secret, what secret? "Ooh I've got a secret...", what se- I haven't got a secret! What secret, idiot? And number two; Nick Witchell remains one of the finest news broadcasters on God's green earth. Besides which, his commitment to his job as the BBC's Royal Correspondent is unimpeachable. Not only does that man love the Royal Family, he loves them in the full knowledge that they cannot stand him, and that takes guts actually! 

I want to end with this tweet from Mike Sutton. He says - this is... this is wonderful - "The most joyful letter I ever received was from my grandfather. He was a former linguistics professor and had been recruited as a codebreaker at Bletchley Park during the Second World War. In 2004, he was placed in a nursing home for the elderly. One day I received a letter from him, in it he spoke about the kindness of the staff and the activities that helped him pass the time. I was relieved, at least he seemed happy, although it was a tragedy to see a man whose mind was once so brilliant, now a shadow of his former self. But then I noticed an arrow in the margin, and realised something that left me overcome with emotion. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I realised he hadn't lost his marbles at all! The John we knew was still there! Because scanning the message, I noticed the first letter of every line spelt the words, 'Get me out of here, these people are cunts!'". How lovely, Mike. Thanks so much for that, what a lovely gift to know that his encryption skills were as sharp as ever, and what a lovely note to end on. This is Alan Partridge, from the Oasthouse. 

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